


the city is my church

by tosca1390



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve just really been thinking about it, and – well, I had to cut off all my hair to prove I was a good person!” she exclaims at last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the city is my church

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the finale. No makeouts, which saddens the world. 
> 
> For Jordan.

*

“Oh – _oh_.”

Mindy’s mouth turns at the corners. “This is not the support I am looking for right now,” she says crisply, slumped against the doorframe of her apartment. Her ransacked, half-packed, all-out-of-order apartment that she _loves_. What will it do without her for a year? Who could love it as much as she does? 

Gwen bites her lip, looking at Mindy with a mixture of pity and exasperation. “It’s just – you look cute – but – it’s just – “

“I’m hideous,” Mindy moans, waving Gwen in (Gwen with her two bottles of wine, one red and one white, _bless_ ) and shutting the front door behind her. “I mean, what was I thinking? I’m Britney mid-breakdown.”

Gwen goes into the kitchen, hair pinned up in loose waves. She finds the corkscrew with ease, shaking her head a little. “Decisions made after two in the morning are almost never a good idea.”

“Thanks, Ted Mosby,” Mindy grumbles, touching the short edges of her hair near her ears. She has a quick flush of a memory, of Danny’s wide palm at her jaw, the line of her throat. “The barber who did it was super shady, too. It felt like I was back in Southie, pounding the pavement.”

“As much as you wish it were true, you did not grow up straight out of _Good Will Hunting_.”

“Concord has its rough patches,” Mindy retorts.

Pouring generously, Gwen hands Mindy the glass of red. “So, apart from the impulsive haircut, why am I here on a nine-one-one trip into the city two weeks before you’re leaving for Haiti with your boyfriend?” 

Mindy shuffles into the living room and slumps down onto the couch. “Because – I don’t know.”

“Don’t know about what?” Gwen asks, trailing behind. 

Taking a big gulp of wine, Mindy wrinkles her nose and pushes back into the cushions. “I just – I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Haiti?” 

“Haiti, with Casey, who I barely know, and who actually maybe kind of doesn’t like who I am?” Mindy blurts out, fingering the blunt edges of the hair at the nape of her neck. “I mean, I feel like he’s trying to change me into this other _me_ , not that I wouldn’t be fantastic no matter what – let’s be real, I would out-altruistic Angelina, if I put my mind to it – “

“Let’s not get overexcited, Mindy,” Gwen says mildly. 

With a huff, Mindy takes another long swallow of her wine. Her gaze flickers out towards the wide bay windows, an orange-purple sunset filtering through the curtains. “I’ve just really been thinking about it, and – well, I had to cut off all my hair to prove I was a good person!” she exclaims at last. 

Because that was really the thing – Casey is a good person, but _god_ he can be sanctimonious, and every moment in that tent with him had been excruciating, and that was less than fifty miles from her apartment, and familiarity, and her _life_. She likes Casey, she _almost_ loves Casey, but he’s not her life. She has a life, and it’s a mess sometimes, but it’s full and bright and hers. She is a good person, if not in the same vein as Casey; but how can she ever prove that to him, especially with his impossibly high standards? 

“You are a good person, Mindy, and a wonderful doctor. That doesn’t mean you need to go join a ministry crusade to Haiti,” Gwen says at last, voice soft. 

There are tears hot behind Mindy’s eyes, but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she swallows her wine and looks at Gwen, steady happy sensible Gwen. “Shit,” she says, and buries her face in the cushions. 

Gwen’s hands are gentle and soft on her shoulders, her shorn hair. Mindy lets her comfort her; she’s one conversation away from settling down onto the floor for a good three days, and she needs to keep Gwen’s goodwill if she’s going to be fed during those days. 

Absently, she thinks of Danny. Between second and third glasses of wine, and the utter realization that she’s been so desperate for the perfect relationship that she’s shifted into another Mindy, she thinks of Danny’s hands on her face, the strange looking away in the doctor’s lounge. 

_Shit_. 

*

There’s a pro-and-con list fluttering on the door of the fridge. Mindy doesn’t usually prescribe to the pro-con process; she thinks on her feet and chooses impulsively (just look at the Brenden situation, good god). Here, though, with her hair many inches shorter and a half-packed suitcase on her bedroom floor, she needs to be precise, circumspect. 

Casey has called three times in the last two days; she’s avoided him, if only because he clouds her judgment (he smells really good and he’s so tall and nice and good and how can she say no to that?). 

(If she’s avoiding Danny right now too, it’s not for the same reason. It is _not_.)

As a joke, she sends a selfie to Rishi, midway through the list building. In less than two minutes, her phone rings. 

“Little bro – “

“You look whack.”

She gasps. “Rude!”

Rishi’s annoyance is palpable through the phone. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”

“It was time for a change,” she bristles – and then realizes, oh _shit_ – 

“Um, also, I’m going to Haiti for a year. Maybe.”

Silence greets her statement. Mindy leans her elbows against the island counter, tapping her nails against the granite. New York is always the prettiest in the spring and fall, she thinks as she glances out her living room windows, though the budding trees and buildings edged by bright blue sky. Nora Ephron taught her that. 

“Rishi?”

“Is this because of the God dude?” he asks at last. 

“I’m finding my inner Angelina.”

“Okay, so yeah.”

Huffing, she pushes herself up and starts to pace in her foyer. Thank god for open floor plans. “It’s for a good cause – they need doctors!”

“Mindy, have you even thought about this? You were all pissed at me for wanting to drop out of college for my music, and you’re dropping your practice and running off to Haiti to prove to a dude that you’re a good person!” he retorts. “That shit is dumb.”

“Please, stop talking like a pseudo-troubled adolescent. You go to Stanford. You’re fooling no one,” she says flatly.

“Neither are you, sis.”

She bites her knuckles, and decides now is a good moment to lay down on the floor. Gwen cleaned up a little before she left, it’s fine. Her yoga pants have seen better days anyway.

“Have you told the ‘rents yet?”

Shit. “Things have been happening really fast, okay?” she shrieks, staring at the ceiling. The hardwood is cool under her prostrate form. She can feel the weird rises on her skull against the floor, now that her hair is short. Creepy. “I was going to tell them!”

“When, on the tarmac?”

“Shut up,” she mutters. 

“What about your patients? The practice? Girl, they will replace your ass.”

“You will speak to me like a normal adult, thank you,” she says, covering her eyes with her free hand. “Oh my god, Rishi.”

He snorts into the phone. “Seriously. What crack are you smoking?”

“Relationship desperation,” she mutters. 

“Gross,” he says, and is quiet. “Look, you can go if you want. You’d be fine. But it doesn’t seem like something that remotely sounds like you. And that’s not a bad thing.”

She breathes out slowly, eyes closed behind the palm of her hand. “I have to call Mom and Dad now,” she says at last. 

“Whoo, girl, I don’t envy you – “

“All right, all right – go study for your finals, jerk,” she sputters. 

Rishi cackles and says goodbye with a quick love you sis, and is gone. Mindy lays very still on the floor of her foyer, listening to the sounds of the city she loves and the apartment she’s put together with her very own hands (well, hers and her decorators, and the movers, and – ). 

_Sometimes you just have to say yes_. When did that turn into saying yes to a man, instead of herself?

In the end, she doesn’t call her parents. Not yet. Instead, she leaves the half-finished list on the fridge and retreats to her bedroom with a bottle of wine and a package of Oreos. What? She didn’t eat dinner. 

*

Of course, there’s a heat wave. 

She’s dressed in the loosest, filmiest dress that’s still work-appropriate, a fluttering A-line skirt and a sweetheart neckline. The splash pattern of orange and deep blue makes her think of sunsets over the water, margaritas and salt; summer in the city. It’s ninety degrees in the shade and by the time she slithers into the elevator at work, her hair is flat and she can barely draw a deep breath. 

“At least it’s not humid,” she mutters, touching the nape of her neck. She pushes the button for her floor just as Morgan torpedoes into the lobby. 

“Dr. L! Dr. L! Hold! Hold!” he hollers. She sighs, and sticks her arm out to hold the elevator doors. 

“Damn if it isn’t as hot as an Otisville spring night here,” Morgan pants as he shuffles in, breathless and sweaty. 

“You’re sweating through your scrubs,” is all she says in return, tired already. 

“And just think! In Haiti, it’s humid as balls,” he says cheerfully, red in the face. His hair sticks to his brow with sweat. 

She holds a hand up. “Morgan, no. This is work. Keep it together, please.”

Morgan shrugs and leans heavily against the elevator wall. “Whoosh. I need a nap. And an ice bath.”

“That’s charming, Morgan,” she murmurs, suddenly a little light-headed. The elevator halts on their floor and she steps out first, making a beeline for her office. 

“Cute dress, Dr. L!” Betsy calls from her desk. 

“Thanks,” Mindy calls back, hurrying into her office and shutting the frosted glass door with a quick snap. The air conditioner is on and humming, the city bustling outside her windows; she has a full day of appointments, and this is all she ever wanted. If a man isn’t going to understand that, then it’s his problem. Right? 

Right. 

In between appointments and a quiet lunch in her office, she calls her mom. In passing, she mentions Haiti and Casey and a year away, and her mom falls very quiet. It’s a disappointed quiet, and it gives Mindy pause. She brushes past it, moves the conversation away from it, but it lingers with her, a strange taste in her mouth. 

Rishi texts her later: _Mom sounds weird. U also get that u’d miss my graduation, right?_

There are two phone calls she makes before she leaves the office that day, sliding back into the dry heat suffusing the city. One is to Casey; the other is to her hairdresser. 

*

To her immense satisfaction, after she and Casey break up – it’s a break-up, even if he says he’ll be back in a year and he’ll come for her then, because she’s almost the _One_ – she only spends one day wallowing on her apartment floor with ice cream, sour worms, and wine within arm’s reach. Gwen comes down from Connecticut and Alex stops by too, which is nice; but after the one day, she gets up for work in the morning, puts on her new shiny orange kitten heels, and goes out into the world. 

Growth, she thinks with sad pleasure. 

“Holy shit, are you a werewolf or something?”

Mindy glares at Danny, sitting tall and primly behind her desk. He lingers in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. There’s something like relief in his eyes, but his mouth is all grump. It’s like Oscar the Grouch on a good day, she thinks mulishly. 

“They’re called _extensions_ , Danny. Read a magazine.”

“Stuff about extensions is in _Rolling Stone_?”

“Of course you read _Rolling Stone_ ,” she murmurs. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he exclaims, accent thickening as the color rushes to his cheeks. 

“Only hipsters and people over forty still read _Rolling Stone_. Guess which category you land in, Baby Boomer.”

“Min, I am only a few years older than you. Same generation.”

“Whatever,” she murmurs, touching the freshly groomed ends of her hair. The extensions come down to her shoulders, a little shorter than her old hair. It’s just until her hair grows out enough to _do_ something with it. It’s vain and dumb, but she feels a little better with her hair back. Like she’s coming back to herself, or something Oprah-esque like that. (She could have rocked the short hair, she _could_ have. But she didn’t want to. Isn’t that the important part?)

After a moment, he clears his throat. “Do they have extension maintenance in Haiti?” he teases, voice a little gruff. 

The words stick in her throat. She shuffles through a new patient application for a moment, wetting her lips. “I – I’m not going,” she says at last. 

Danny is very quiet for a moment – deathly quiet. She hazards a glance at him, and promptly stands up. “Oh my god –“

The vein is popping in his forehead and his arms are tense, his hands clenched into fists. She hasn’t seen him this angry since – well, the frat party? No, Brenden – no, perhaps –

“What did he do?” he grits out. 

“Oh my _god_ , please stop acting like the older brother I thankfully do not have,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I mean, really – “

“I’m not – goddamnit, that sanctimonious prick must have done _something_ , I mean – “

“You used the word sanctimonious. Huh,” she murmurs. 

“I mean, you – you were _in_. You cut off all your damn hair!” he snarls. She can see those in the office beginning to peer in; Betsy and Morgan look especially interested. 

“Okay, calm down Tony Soprano,” she says hurriedly, crossing in front of her desk and pulling him into her office. She shuts the door and frowns at him, her nose scrunched up. “What the hell died up your butt?”

He gapes at her for a moment, hands still clenched into fists at his sides. Cheeks red, eyes bright, his mouth curls into a frown. “Nothing,” he mutters, folding himself into one of the chairs facing her desk. “What happened?”

Sighing, she crosses her arms over her chest. The heat is still lingering over the city, refusing to break; she thinks that accounts for the flush to her face, the damp feel of her palms. “Nothing happened. I just – I didn’t want to go enough.”

“But – “ he stops, brow deeply furrowed. She smoothes down her blouse, the pale purple cool against her skin, and waits. 

After he is quiet for too long, she leans in and shoves his shoulder. “Danny.”

“I’m glad,” he says shortly. “Okay? I’m glad.”

“I’m so glad my personal despair brings you joy,” she says flatly. 

“That isn’t at all what I meant,” he retorts, looking up at her. “You know – “

He cuts himself off again, and she feels unsettled, a little awkward. It’s all too reminiscent of the doctor’s lounge a week ago, his hand on her neck, his fingers at her cheek. She didn’t know the look in his eyes then, and she doesn’t know it now; it’s strange. 

“I wouldn’t have been happy,” she says at last, to throw him a bone. “So, it’s okay. Besides, being someone’s _almost-the-One_ isn’t good enough for me, and it shouldn’t be for Casey either.”

“You’re right,” he says abruptly, standing up. He’s suddenly very close to her, crowding her personal space bubble (she’s very serious about it, there are _boundaries_ ). His body heat comes off of him in nervous waves; she hopes he has a spare shirt in his office. There’s his hand on her elbow, warm and damp through the thin fabric of her blouse. She wets her lips, looking up at him carefully. 

Danny doesn’t seem to know what to say, his face a strange shielded mess. There’s a scar under his chin that she can see from here, and she suddenly wants the story behind it. “You deserve a guy who’s going to let you be the insane, smart, happy crackpot that you are, you know? And that guy – it wasn’t going to happen,” he says at last. 

She smiles just a little bit, leaning into his grasp on her arm. Her hip props against the edge of her desk. “Crackpot? No wonder you’re a hit with the ladies.”

“Hey, I’m mean but I’m sincere. At least give me that,” he all but drawls. 

“Yeah,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re stuck with me now, Danny-boy.”

His gaze bores into her, heady and clear. “Good.”

Breath catching in her throat, she sniffs and steps away, towards her desk chair. “And there you were a week ago, hosting a going-away party and ready to let me walk away,” she teases. 

He coughs and sputters, rubbing a hand over his face. She misses the weight of his hand on her skin. “Who am I to stop you from your romantic delusions?”

“My friend, duh,” she says lightly as she sits, crossing her ankles and peering up at him. 

Danny doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch. Instead, he just gives her a small grin, a crooked twist of his mouth. “Good,” he says gruffly. “I’m going to the place for lunch. Want anything?”

“The sandwich place?” At his nod, she rolls her eyes. “My god, a little sushi wouldn’t kill you.”

“It’s raw fish, Min. It might,” he shoots back before he waves and leaves her office. Mindy sits back in her chair, feels the knot in her stomach loosen just the slightest. Beyond her office doors, she can hear Morgan prattling on at Betsy, Betsy’s half-hearted attempts to feign interest. This is home; they are home. There’s nothing romantic about it, but it’s hers. 

When she comes back from her last exam room appointment before lunch, there’s a little package of sushi waiting on her desk, wasabi and soy sauce included. Cucumber rolls, crab rolls, tuna – nothing particularly crazy, but still. Sushi. 

Mindy smiles, and digs in. 

*


End file.
